


Broken Nutcrackers

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Age Difference, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Military, Non-Explicit, Pedophilia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Sergei is kind of evil in this but also in pain, Soviet Union, Teenage Drama, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Nicholai and Sergei, the early years.Presented in a series of very short vignettes.[please, for the love of all that is good, read the tags and tw for everything. explicit for themes not for sexual content]
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Broken Nutcrackers

The music was abusively loud -- bass reverberating from the thin walls of the apartment where faded floral wallpaper cracked and peeled. 

Some American pop song, Sergei couldn't quite understand the words and he figured it didn't matter.

It wasn't meant to be listened to. Volume blaring just to cover the screams of the poor, drug-addicted whore in the bedroom who'd realised hours ago that she'd bit off more than she could chew when she accepted all of the soldiers into her home.

He didn't have any sympathy for her.

Sergei took a deep suck on his cigarette, leaning back in the creaky kitchen chair with a grunt. His skin glistened with sweat, bared chest rising and falling slowly, glimmering contours reflecting the dim, hazy red light diffusing through the drawn threadbare curtains of the small window above the sink. It was a hot day in Moscow.

A bit of movement caught the corner of his eye, his head turning intuitively to catch tiny hands wrapping their way around the doorframe on the other end of the kitchen, a small, chubby face peeking out of the crack. Sergei caught a moment of the big, jade eyes glistening glassily at him before the child darted away, pressing the door shut.

Sergei lowered his boots from the tabletop slowly, cigarette dangling from his lips as he stood and stepped towards the door, back muscles rolling like a stalking cat as he walked. 

But a mess of curses stopped him just as he raised his hand towards the door, men bellowing and an argument erupting in the bedroom about the whore.

Ivanovsky, one of his conscripts, rushed into the kitchen, hands on his opened belt, haphazardly trying to keep his fatigues up.

"Sir! there's a problem, Sir."

_**~** _

The little boy was an odd piece of furniture in his house.

So small, he sat like a porcelain doll on the massive couch in Sergei's better-than-average Tverskoy condo, tiny arms wrapped around a tattered stuffed bear he'd insisted on clutching onto when Sergei pulled him from the apartment, rushing in anticipation of police arrival.

He'd sat on the couch for days.

Sometimes he lulled to sleep, jade eyes fluttering and falling back into the pillows of the couch, but he awakened to sit more. Always silent.

Sergei's leg bounced anxiously as he stared at him from his armchair; can of flat beer resting on his thigh, fluid inside sloshing with his jitter. 

"What is your name?"

It was the third or fourth time he'd attempted the question over the last three days, each time met with silence or perhaps a quivering lower lip that frustrated him and sent him stomping out of the room.

Sergei's leg stopped bouncing, the older man leaning forward with a glare, "I want your name."

The little boy snuggled his face into the bear's head, tiny fingers squeezing into the plush body.

"Do you have one?" Sergei asked slowly through a grimace.

Jade eyes peeked past a stuffed ear.

"Are you mute? Are you stupid? What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?!"

"Kolya." The tiny squeak was just barely audible in its muffle. 

"Kolya? Your name is Nicholai?" Sergei sighed loudly when the little head bobbed, relief in the success of finally extracting information. The soldier stood, deciding he wanted a refreshment of his drink.

"Mama." The tiny voice called out behind him, "Where's m-mama?"

Sergei snorted nonchalantly, not bothering to stop or turn as he continued towards the kitchen.

"She's dead!"

The high-pitched, whining scream that accompanied his words told him he'd need something stronger to drink than beer.

_**~** _

It was one of those nights.

Sergei rapidly sat up in his bed, sweat dripping down his temples, tears quaking from his eyes. He immediately scrubbed a hand over his face, as though he were trying to hide the evidence of what he called his weakness. 

He knew he'd been screaming because his lungs and throat hurt, chest heaving through ragged breaths he was desperately trying to calm.

It wasn't real, he reminded himself.

The sounds of bullets peppering past his head. The sounds of screaming. The sounds of flames crackling and explosions bellowing in the distance.

It wasn't real. 

With a final, deep breath, he lulled his head back to crack against his shoulders.

He glanced out the fogged-up window across from his bed -- it was snowing again.

A reflection forced his head to rapidly turn towards the bedroom door, his eyes immediately rolling as he saw the boy standing in the frame. The shirt he was draped in -- one of Sergei's -- pooled along the floor, absolutely dwarfing every inch of his tiny frame like it was a mighty robe.

The boy wasn't so tiny anymore, but still insisted on dragging the stuffed bear along with him. Sergei reminded himself to confiscate it.

"What the fuck do you want?" Sergei barked, casting out a stern finger, "Go back to your fucking room!"

Nicholai squeaked, turning and rushing down the hall, almost tripping on his makeshift pyjamas as he stumbled towards his makeshift bedroom in Sergei's office.

**_~_ **

It was 4 a.m.

The smell of grain porridge and heated bread filled the small condo, the clinking of plates and glasses cutting through an hour where most would be asleep. Sergei was reading through the paper, taking tepid sips of tea. His uniform tie was unfurled around his shoulders, buttons not quite done up.

"Schedule." He said, not bothering to look up from the paper.

Across the table, Nicholai set down his spoon, swallowing the bit of _kasha_ he had in his mouth.

"I have marching at 5-- and then I have to go across town to be at school for 7."

"What's your first class?"

"Math." The teen cleared his throat, "Then physics, and history. I have to go back to the barracks at lunch for a physical."

"Don't you have a marksman exam?" Sergei asked, taking another sip of his tea.

"That's _next_ Tuesday."

"Do you have ballet today?"

"After politics class. Until 8." Nicholai picked up his spoon, a dissident smirk coming over his lips, "It's _Tchaikovsky_ time again." He mewed.

"People like Tchaikovsky during the winter season. So what?"

Nicholai rolled his eyes, "It's boring."

"You're doing it for exercise not because you need to be a Baryshnikov."

~

It was one of those nights.

Sergei half-jogged down the hall on naked feet, calling as he closed the distance between his and Nicholai's rooms.

"Okay -- Okay, calm down!"

He rapidly switched the light on in his long-repurposed office, darting to kneel beside the small mattress in the corner and grabbing at Nicholai's arm firmly.

The boy was screaming and crying, sweat pooling around his shot-open eyes and dripping from his slick hair onto the pillow. 

"Calm **_down_**!" Sergei tried to encourage, still awkwardly inept at dealing with his occasional night terrors after all these years. He rubbed the thin arm, trying to soothe Nicholai back into reality. 

Slowly, the whining and keeling slowed, ragged, deep breaths hyperventilating out from the tiny body, the contour of his ribcage poking from the thin flesh of his chest with every gasp. Sergei pulled the covers away, feeling the heat emanating from Nicholai's feverish skin.

"Fuck..." Sergei shook his head, "I'll go get you water."

But just as he moved to rise to his feet, one of Nicholai's hands clutched at his, preventing him from pulling away from the grasp he'd had on his arm. The little fingers clawed at him softly, tugging on his much larger digits.

"P-please do-on't leave--me." He sobbed jaggedly, slick brow upturned and furrowed above his glassy jade eyes.

"Fine."

~

Nicholai slung the duffle bag over his shoulder in an attempt to nudge it a bit higher, its heaviness causing it to droop across the fabric of his jacket every few steps he made. 

He trudged through the snow, walking through the fog of his own breath, lips twitching from the cold.

The condo building in the distance was a welcome sight, and all he could think about was having a hot shower to soothe his aching muscles and going to sleep, grateful their instructor had let them go an hour early so they could rest. He wondered if Sergei had ordered in dinner yet, like he normally did on nights Nicholai's classes went late into the night.

The seasonal premier of the Nutcracker was tomorrow, and though he'd done it for years, he was always a bit anxious the night before. But he shoved all of his worries to the back of his mind, excitedly jumping through the threshold of the building's door and striding up the long, winding staircase to their floor. 

He began to fiddle through his pocket for his key, turning the corner into the hall where their entrance was at the very corner. But just as he approached the door, it opened quickly.

A young soldier stepped out into the hall, adjusting his scarf. A flush came over his face when he saw Nicholai, but he cleared his throat and manoeuvred around the teen without a word.

Nicholai turned to watch the solider pace down the hall in rapid, tight strides, eyes following him with confusion until he disappeared around the corner. 

When Nicholai finally entered the condo, he did so with a bit of caution -- uncertain as to whether Sergei might have had a meeting going in the home. A rare, but not totally uncommon occurrence. The boy tossed his duffel bag to the floor after listening for a moment and not hearing any voices, slipping his coat off and hanging it on the rack beside the door. 

It wasn't until he emerged in the kitchen to find Sergei making himself a drink that he finally understood. 

The older man peeped a gasp, quickly wrapping his open robe around himself and fumbling through tying the belt.

"N-Nicholai!" Sergei huffed, eyes widening slightly, "What are you doing here, your class wasn't supposed to be over until 8..."

"Mr. Smirnov... let us go early."

**_~_ **

Nicholai's fingers closed around the cold glass, a soft smile playing on his face as though it had been permanently etched there with a laser. 

Sergei had been deployed to Afghanistan again for another three-month stint, the heavens aligning and sending him away just as his summer session classes had ended. 

Freedom.

His schoolmate had almost been shocked when he accepted the invitation to a weekend get-together, never having had taken him up on his offers before. He'd always had class. Military practice. Ballet. Swimming lessons. Piano practice. Shooting lessons. Or a dinner date with Sergei he would have been unwise to skip.

Now, for the first time ever, he was at a _party_. 

A real _party_. 

Music loudly flowed through the rooms of the elaborate house hosting the rambunctious affair, liquor bottles strewn across every flat surface, teens packed in the rooms arm-to-arm. The girls wore short, lacy skirts and high heels in an attempt to steal the attention of the boys, and the smell and smoke of cigarettes cast a foggy haze through the air. 

Nicholai took a tepid sip of his vodka, trying to hide the sourness it put on his face. He'd never drank before -- Sergei strictly forbidding him from sampling the liquor in the cabinet at home, and he'd always known better than to try and pull a fast one over the older man.

"Whose place is this again?" Nicholai shouted, turning his head to pose the question to his friend where they both sat on the couch.

"Guy's name is Turgenev!" Dmitri answered.

"Who is he?" 

Dmitri shrugged, taking a swig of his beer, "I think he works for the Mayor or something. Lets us kids use his place for parties. He's cool!" Dmitri shoved his hand in his pocket, wiggling his hips so he could reach deeper into the tight jeans. Finding what he sought, he plucked a small baggie from his pants, one that contained a number of little, bright blue pills.

"He gave me these!"

"What are they?" Nicholai asked curiously, eyebrow furrowing.

"They're _amazing_." Dmitri mewed with a smirk, "Want to try?"

_**~** _

Nicholai combed his fingers through his hair, straightening the silver strands anxiously as he waited to see if anyone would answer his press of the doorbell.

" _This is stupid_." He thought to himself, " _What are you doing?_ "

His hands slipped down to adjust his coat, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he contemplated how he'd so quickly woken up that morning and jumped on the next bus into the lavish area of town. The bright blue pills Dmitri had given him made him feel incredible, and he longed for more.

The house was much more ornate during the day -- the full wealth of the neighbourhood on perverse display in a way he hadn't noticed the previous night as he'd stepped out of the taxi into the darkness with Dmitri. 

Just as he was sure no one was home, the doorknob began to rattle from the inside, the door opening a small crack.

A chubby, bearded man poked his head out, brow furrowing behind the rim of thick glasses. 

"What?"

"I-I'm sorry to bother you, Sir." Nicholai cleared his throat, "I-I was at a party here last night..."

The man looked around, as though he were checking to see if Nicholai was alone or if there was anyone watching in the opposing houses.

"Mmm... Yes?" He said, eyes still fluttering to distant windows with no hidden degree of paranoia.

"I-I know this is probably dumb, but my friend -- Dmitri Alexandrovich -- said he got these pills from you and... ahh..." Nicholai rubbed his lips together, "Do you-- do you have any more?"

The man slowly opened the door wider, ushering the teen inside, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

~

" _You haven't been answering the phone. Leave a message for Platoon 835 in Kabul by the end of the day. I **mean** it."_

The message machine beeped loudly as the recording stopped, Sergei's terse voice hanging heavily in the room long after it had fallen silent.

It floated through the musty air, slipping into the rooms one by one like a spectre searching for the subject.

In the bathroom, Nicholai was groaning loudly, head pressed up against the cool bowl of the toilet, face grey and sunken as he resisted throwing up for the third time.

His stomach churned, guts jerking and wrenching inside of him. His pale skin was clammy and oily, tendrils of sweat rolling down his forehead. Waves of nausea beat through him, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes in response to the overwhelming burn electrifying every nerve in his aching body.

 _Water._

Nicholai's hands almost slipped as he crawled across the floor, deciding to take a drink from the tub tap as the sink was far too high a mountain to climb. The boy slung his head into the tub, turning the creaky taps and lapping from the weak stream like a desperate dog. 

Just beyond the threshold of the bathroom door, he could see his school satchel, and after he'd had his fill of water, he crawled over to it.

He dumped the contents out onto the floor, searching raggedly through the messy contents.

_One more, just one more._

A whine escaped him when he realised he had no more of the little, bright blue pills.

Legs quaking, he slowly rose to stand. His head began to spin, stomach gurgling loudly. Stumbling, he grabbed onto whatever he could for support as he made his path towards the kitchen. 

The phone clicked as he shakily pulled it off the receiver, dopily dialling the number he'd all but rehearsed by now.

"M-iste-r T-Turgenev?"

_**~** _

Every flash made him nauseous, the bright white stealing his vision for seconds at a time.

It was hot.

Nicholai could feel beads of sweat forming at his temples, some dripping down jaggedly when they got fat enough. He tried to close his eyes, to keep the flashes out, but every time he did he was stopped.

"Open your eyes, Kolya." Turgenev instructed from beyond the whiteness, "Everyone wants to see those pretty eyes."

Nicholai grimaced, but obeyed.

His nose crinkled a bit as he felt the man behind him thrust firmly. He tried to contain a groan of upset at the stabbing of his insides, but couldn't. Another flash accompanied the mew leaving his mouth.

"Spread your legs a bit wider."

He wasn't sure who the voice belonged to, but obeyed.

"Almost done, Kolya!" Turgenev chirped, "You've been such a good boy. Just another few photos and you can have your medicine."

~

Sergei hadn't said a word to him on the drive home, but the moment they'd crossed the threshold of the apartment, his festering rage began to bubble forth.

"Drugs?" His lips were practically trembling across the syllables, his voice vibrating with fury. " ** _Drugs_**?"

The older man was clearly having a hard time controlling his anger, the tendons in his neck bouncing and dancing, a snarl developing on his freshly scarred face. Nicholai's head was cast down, gaze fluttering around the carpet beneath his feet as he sat, hands wringing in his lap anxiously. On his wrist, the hospital band was becoming tattered from his incessant picking at it.

"You-- You were here doing dr--" Sergei huffed loudly, barely able to finish his thought. A shaky hand began to anxiously pat at the bandages covering half of his face, Adams apple bobbing rapidly above the collar of the green, casual military attire. The stress was sending waves of pain through his mortar wounds.

"And you were _kicked out_ of ballet?!" He hissed, "Kicked out?! Have you even been going to _school_?!"

He began to pace rapidly, uncertain of what to do with himself, needing to do anything at all. 

"And where did you get the _money_ for these drugs?!" He suddenly barked, "Hmm? Where?!"

Nicholai licked his lips, shaking his head sardonically, "Does it matter?"

"Did you _steal_ it?" Sergei scoffed loudly, striding back up towards the couch to tower over the teen, "Are you whoring yourself?" He asked smarmily, "You want to be just like your _mother_ , huh?"

Nicholai looked up, nostrils flaring, "Why? Do you want to kill me too?!"

The sudden backhand sent ringing echoing through Nicholai's skull, eyes spotting black and blue for a moment as he toppled from the couch, landing on the floor face-first. 

He could feel his jaw cracking as he clenched it, joint painfully popping back into place. Immediately, a numbness flood through his lower lip -- he knew he'd split it on a tooth. Slowly, Nicholai planted his hands on the ground, shakily rising to his knees. 

"Or m-maybe you want to fuck me?" Nicholai gasped through his fattening lip, trying to smile but unable to do much more than gape pathetically, blood dripping to the white carpet below, "Fuck me like you fuck all those young conscripts you bring back here?"

Sergei was marching towards the door, grabbing his jacket from the coatrack with suck force it almost ripped from the wall.

"You old _**faggot**_!"

~

The Military Academy receptionist greeted Sergei pompously, bowing and scraping to him as the freshly sewn patches and newly-minted medals dangling from his pressed uniform demanded.

He ushered him down the hall, up a set of wide, white stairs, and through a set of double doors until they were in the dormitory wing of the grand building. As they passed open doors, conscripts and students peeked out of their rooms, curiously catching a glimpse of the Colonel who'd come to visit his ward. 

Nicholai was in room 290 -- a nice corner suite he'd personally arranged for him after he'd sent him off the previous year, knowing from personal experience the Academy dorms were crappy at the best of times, never mind without a window

He thanked the receptionist, who scurried off quickly before he planted a few knocks on the doorframe, poking his head into the bedroom to see Nicholai turning away from his desk, a little smile coming across his face when he noticed the other man.

The hug wasn't tepid -- not anymore. Sergei planted a sloppy kiss on the boy's cheek, running his fingers through his hair during their embrace before pulling away to assess him closely. 

A handsome 17-year-old, Nicholai looked healthy and strong. The young man immediately launched into a tirade about something that happened at training earlier that day, settling into a chair while Sergei plunked down on his bed, listening intently to the story. 

"Anyway..." Nicholai sighed after a few moments of ranting, "How is the move?"

Sergei shrugged, "Tiresome, but almost over." He said, humming in realisation and reaching for his satchel, "You remind me... I found something while I was packing up."

Nicholai gasped a little gasp when Sergei pulled his tattered, old stuffed bear from his bag. Lips gaped and eyes widening, he tenderly took it when it was offered, holding it tightly in his hands. 

"Remember him?" Sergei smiled as he watched Nicholai hold the bear closely, looking half-embarrassed at his immediate instinct to snuggle with it, and half-relieved that he even had the opportunity.

"You know... I don't think you ever told me what his name was."

" _Luchik_." Nicholai answered without hesitation, "His name is _Luchik_."

~

It was snowing again. 

Fat, white flakes danced in the darkness beyond the window, creating a polka-dot skyline over the Moscow nightfall. 

The radio hummed softly, spokespeople chattering amongst themselves about the imminent transition that was befalling their beleaguered nation.

Nicholai wondered if he should try to move to turn it off, knowing it was likely distressing Sergei further, but the older man was so firmly coiled into his chest that he felt it would be worse for him if he tried. 

Sergei had taken the collapse harder than anyone else. The man's entire identity had been placed firmly in his fiercely nationalistic military service, and, just as he was due for a promotion to Major-General, everything had fallen apart. His platoons were fragmented and decommissioned, and his property and income were seized pending an investigation into his role in the failed August coup.

That night, like so many others, he'd ended up at Nicholai's door, drunk and depressed. 

Nicholai ran his hands over the older man's shoulders, nestling his nose into his greying hair as he quietly sobbed.

The snow began to patter on the window, a gust forcing them to begin accumulating against the outside pane. Just barely, Nicholai could hear the whistling of the cold air trying to sneak into the cracks.

A few more minutes passed before the spokespeople stopped talking, and their silence was slowly replaced by horns, flutes, and a fluttering harp fading in.

Immediately, Nicholai recognised it as nothing but the waltz of the flowers from The Nutcracker.

Nicholai's eyes rolled so hard they almost pulled, a loud, involuntary groan of discontent pushing from his lungs that prompted a tear-mingled laugh from Sergei. 

"Still?"

Nicholai sighed, "Still."

"People like Tchaikovsky during the winter season..." Sergei said, sniffling, "So what?"

"It's boring."

**Author's Note:**

> Just a whole lot of drama for no reason. I would say the time periods for everything here would be 1968 (Nicholai was born in 1963) to 1991.
> 
> Working through character studies and head canons, bear with me!!! TT-TT
> 
> (by the way, go YouTube waltz of the flowers. its such a fun song to listen to)
> 
> (EDIT: dumbass me stupid me I did not include all of the parts when I copied and pasted this into the AO3 from my word document I hate myself. they are now added)


End file.
